


North Star

by anactoria



Series: Frozen Stars [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blow Jobs, Identity Porn, M/M, Magic-Users, Samifer Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:57:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8298506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: Rival kings Lucifer and Michael have been tearing the kingdom apart since their father died, each of them convinced he should be the one to rule it alone. Between their warring factions and the civilian resistance that wants them both gone, peace seems like a distant dream. In the frozen islands to the north, magic glitters beneath the ice. Lucifer travels there in disguise, seeking an advantage in the fight against his brother -- but ends up finding something rather different.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the 2016 [Samifer Big Bang](http://samiferbigbang.tumblr.com/), and you can check out the art by [juniper-raso](http://juniper-raso.tumblr.com) right [here](http://anactorya.tumblr.com/post/151936946447/juniper-raso-so-if-the-boy-hero-of-the)! Many thanks to the mods for all their hard work making the challenge happen, and to [hideyourdemoneyes](http://hideyourdemoneyes.tumblr.com) for his beta help. :)
> 
> If you're here because you liked _Via Negationis_ , I should probably warn you that this is... not that. It's the story I wrote to cheer myself up while I was working on that, and therefore has much less angst, death, and woe, and much more foeyay and silly worldbuilding. I hope you enjoy it.

The boy caught Lucifer’s eye in the marketplace.

This was the start of the off-season, and the little fishing village was quiet, the shoals having begun their long migration south. The salt reek of the last catches drying on the outskirts of town pervaded the whole settlement and the wind hadn’t changed in days. It was the smell that had driven him to action as much as anything else: the way it clung to clothing and hair, seeped in beneath shutters, stuck in the back of the throat. On the north side of the island the air would be clear, the snow fresh and white. Right now, Lucifer felt it might be worth the trip even if he didn’t find what he’d come here for.

He’d still need a guide, though. Luckily, finding one wasn’t going to be hard. The fishing boats were moored for now, and it would be a seven-night, maybe two, before the hunting parties headed for the mainland and came back loaded down with the fluffy white furs that Lucifer was ostensibly here to trade for. (He’d dropped hints about being willing to pay for something a little more unusual, if he could find it. Hopefully, word would have gotten around by now.) In the meantime, the able-bodied men and unwed women of the village were left with nothing to do but loiter, and a lethargic heaviness settled over the place. It was visible now, in the market square—the stalls sparse with no fresh catch to sell, little knots of people dotted around the place, lounging or whittling or exchanging desultory small-talk.

But then, in among them, there he was. A boy golden as an Arcadian morning, watching Lucifer from the far side of the square.

 _Boy_ was a misnomer, really. He was certainly old enough to fight, or to marry, or to captain a boat. There was something innocent in his expression, though, as he laughed at whatever the yellow-haired girl next to him was saying—an earnest sweetness at odds with the straight, sure way he held himself. He made no attempt to hide his curiosity, as a Southerner might. His eyes were clear and bright. 

The curiosity was understandable. Southerners were rare in these parts, wealthy ones doubly so. Lucifer was bound to stand out, short-haired and clean-shaven, with fine white furs over his clothes, where the islanders favored weatherproof sealskins and beards. There were those among his advisors who had called it a risky strategy. He should have gone native, they’d said. He was inviting scrutiny, begging for somebody to see through his disguise.

Lucifer knew better. The common herd were unobservant; and besides, he rarely showed his face this far north. None among them would recognize a king without a crown.

That, and the disguise of a wealthy merchant allowed him to stay in comfort. Relatively speaking, anyway. Up here, the food was tough and tasteless, hot baths an unheard-of luxury, and the cold wind off the sea crept in through every crack in the shutters. What Lucifer wouldn’t have given for the warmth of an Arcadian summer…

Still. Better to be freezing his balls off up north than lounging uselessly in some seraglio like Gabriel, or quashing his doubts and trailing along in Michael’s wake like Raphael. At least he was _doing_ something.

He circled the market square, making a show of handling the few goods on display, though in truth he barely spared them a glance. More important was the way the stallholders greeted him, looking up and smiling at his approach. The locals were getting used to him. At least, they’d established that his gold was good.

And when he turned around, the young man was still watching him across the square.

Lucifer circled closer, not looking away this time, and the young man seemed to realize he’d been caught staring. He ducked his head, the hint of a blush staining his cheeks.

Well. _That_ was interesting.

Interesting—but that wasn’t what Lucifer was here for. Still, he gave up on wandering between the stalls and made his way over, looking the young man up and down as he approached, a little more brazen than he would be at home, or in his own person.

All he said, though, was, “Are you looking for work?”

The young man blinked a couple of times, but met Lucifer’s gaze. His eyes were green-gold. Warm. “That depends what kind of work.” 

Lucifer inclined his head north. “I need a guide,” he said. “Somebody who knows the ice fields.”

The young man raised an eyebrow. “The ice fields? What do you want up there?”

Lucifer paused for a moment, considering. That there were veins of power trapped beneath the ice in the north of the island was no secret. Nor was the fact that powerful Southerners were willing to pay good money for it. A little of it could enable sorcerers to work magic that would otherwise be far beyond their reach.

All being well, it would finally allow Lucifer a chance at the crown. A return to Arcadia.

He couldn’t afford for that to get back to Michael. But Northerners held little more love for his brother than Lucifer himself did. The troublesome ones tended to be of the anti-monarchist variety; the ones who thought all kings’ heads should roll. Not that he’d seen much sentiment of either variety among the villagers. This far north, the war was a far-off thing—another reason it was easy to go unrecognized.

He shrugged. “I have clients,” he said. “They know what’s under the ice up there, and they’re willing to pay. As am I. But if you don’t know the way…” He turned away, surveying the rest of the marketplace.

There were plenty of other loiterers who’d be willing to guide him for a few gold coins. But the young man replied, “I didn’t say that,” just a touch more quickly than was necessary, a flare of something unidentifiable in his eyes, and Lucifer felt a flicker of gratification.

“So you’ll take me,” he said. 

The young man nodded. “I can get you where you need to go.” A strand of braided hair fell into his face—he wore it long, like most of the men up here—and he pushed it back, a nervous little gesture.

Lucifer smiled. “Then we’ll leave in an hour.”

The young man nodded. Then frowned. “I, uh, didn’t get your name.” He held out his hand, and Lucifer shook it.

“Nicolo.” The alias slid off his tongue. “You can call me Nick.” 

“Great.” The young man nodded. “And, uh, I’m Sam. It’s good to meet you.”

“It certainly is, Sam.” Lucifer squeezed his hand once before letting go. Sam was blushing again when he turned away. 

Lucifer was here for a reason. The mission: that was the important thing. Taking down Michael. 

But even if he found what he was looking for today, they wouldn’t leave until the morning tide. Maybe he could afford a little amusement, after all.

 

\----

 

The walk was hard at first, and they made their way uphill in relative silence, their breath pluming white before their faces, the crunch of their boots on the snow very loud. More than once, Lucifer put his hand to the pocket of his cloak, reassuring himself that the small glass vial he carried there was still intact. It was only when the terrain had levelled out a little, the ground beneath their feet steadying, that Sam turned and spoke to him.

“So,” he said, his voice startling in the silence. “You’re looking for power.”

“I’m looking for something to trade.” Lucifer put his head on one side, regarding Sam curiously. “It’s valuable. But your village doesn’t trade in wild magic. Why is that?”

“Balance,” said Sam.

“Balance.” Lucifer lifted an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate on that?”

Sam was frowning, now. “This island isn’t exactly hospitable,” he pointed out, with a vague, encompassing gesture. “Some people think the magic trapped under the ice is the only reason we’re able to live here. If we extracted it all, what would happen to us?”

“And do you believe that?”

Sam looked away. “Does it matter?” he said. “Even if the magic isn’t what keeps us alive here—we still shouldn’t take too much. We have to live with the land, not exploit it. That would make us no better than parasites.” 

His expression darkened briefly, his mouth an unhappy line, and Lucifer felt a flicker of something unfamiliar. Sympathy, maybe. He hadn’t been expecting this kind of vehemence; hadn’t thought to run into a villager who felt so deeply about his surroundings. Truth be told, he hadn’t encountered much in the way of finer feelings since his exile. The northern lands were coarse, brutish. He suspected that was why Michael had sent him here.

Despite his frown, Sam shone like a sunbeam amid the snow. Lucifer resisted the urge to put a hand on his shoulder. “You needn’t worry,” he said, instead, softly. “I know what I’m doing.”

Sam half-smiled. “Let’s hope so.”

They walked on. Lucifer let the silence stretch out between them for a moment, but couldn’t resist pushing the subject. “Has nobody ever thought to try it? I know times are hard, up here. The fishing isn’t what it was.” The boats in the harbor were in ill repair, the young and able-bodied less numerous than they were down south.

“People leave,” Sam told him, his voice carrying back through the cold. “Turn soldier or shieldmaiden, sign up to fight for one king or another.” There was bitterness in his words. This must be personal, Lucifer realized. A brother or a sister or a lover gone off to fight, maybe come to an untimely end on the battlefield.

Then it occurred to him that Sam had only mentioned the kings. As though he and Michael were the only causes of bloodshed in the kingdoms. Sam should have known better: the Resistance certainly had a toehold around here. One of the leaders Michael had brought in last month had been a northerner, Dean Winchester, caught in the act of sabotage alongside one of their half-brothers—Castiel, the old king’s bastard by a woman from the eastern plains—and a pirate captain named Lafitte. 

As far as Lucifer’s spies had gathered, they’d so far been singularly unforthcoming with information. All Uriel had gleaned from listening in on their conversations through the cell bars was that Winchester had a brother at home—likely still a child, from the way he talked. Lucifer had had his men look out for a boy with big green eyes and freckles on their travels, but they’d had no luck so far. A shame. Leverage was always useful.

Not that there was any point dwelling on that now. His goal was within reach—and there were far more pleasant distractions at hand. “And the Resistance?” he prodded. “What about them?”

Sam snorted. “They don’t pay.”

“You think that’s all there is to it? No conviction, just gold? You don’t think people sign up to fight on principle?”

“All looks like the same principle to me.” Sam’s shoulders sagged, and he turned his gaze ahead again. For a moment, he looked weary from head to toe; the same kind of exhaustion Lucifer was used to seeing on soldiers fresh from the frontlines. Then he straightened and lifted his chin, like every young man who’s ever thought he was facing down injustice.

Of course, all war seems unjust to the inexperienced. Lucifer had probably looked the same, when his own father first explained the necessity of bloodshed. He’d been little more than a child at the time; but that was one of the burdens of royalty.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said, gently. “You’re young.” 

Sam rounded on him. “I’m nineteen!” he protested, with a younger sibling’s indignation. 

Yes, that must have been it. An older brother or sister gone off to war. 

Sam sighed, then. “Anyway, _you_ wouldn’t understand. What it’s like to go to fight because you have nothing, I mean. You’re of noble birth.”

That brought Lucifer up short. Merchants tended to be solidly middle-class, some even working their way up from the lower orders. Hardly a respectable profession for a son of the nobility. He’d thought his disguise watertight. Could he really have given himself away?

“What makes you say that?” he asked, with an edge that stopped Sam in his tracks.

Sam turned back to him and hesitated for a moment. “I was watching you,” he said, then. “In the marketplace.”

Lucifer afforded him a small smile. “I noticed.”

“Most merchants—they’re only interested in the goods. They hardly notice the people around them. They’re just figuring out how much gold they’ll make, doing calculations in their heads. But not you. You went through the motions, but you were looking at us like—like we were animals in one of those traveling menageries. Like seeing ordinary people was new to you.” He ducked his head again, not meeting Lucifer’s eyes.

Perhaps Lucifer should have been angry. Certainly, he’d need to work on his persona in future, just in case of unusually observant eyes. Still, he found he couldn’t help but smile. Brains and beauty. Rare enough in Arcadia; certainly not something he’d expected to see up here.

“You’re very perceptive.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “And you’re right. I didn’t expect to end up here. I guess you might say I’m… the black sheep of the family.”

Sam flashed him a smile, but there was something pained in it. “Tell me about it,” he said. He was looking down again. Maybe he wasn’t used to being praised.

Still. That was better than getting used to it and then having it taken away.

Lucifer didn’t have time to dwell on the thought, though, because then they rounded a bare outcropping of rock and a vast sheet of ice stretched out like glass before them. 

He was no stranger to travel, but this was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Its surface gleamed beneath the pale sky, broken by jagged crystalline formations, some of them tall as trees, sharp-edged as cut gemstones. Like the bones of long-dead dragons, if they breathed ice and not fire.

There was nothing natural about them, and their cause was plain to see. The vein that pulsed with pale iridescence beneath the surface of the ice, a river of power waiting to be tapped.

Even Sam was staring. Lucifer could well imagine that it never stopped being breathtaking, no matter how many times one saw it.

Sam shook himself, then. “We’re here,” he said, unnecessarily.

“Thanks, I wasn’t sure.”

Sam looked at him sideways, scowling, but his expression softened when he realized Lucifer was smiling. “You never know with Southerners.”

They picked their way across the ice to where the vein shone brightest. Its power was palpable, a vibration in the air and in the ice beneath their boots, a hum like music just too quiet to hear. When Lucifer breathed in, he tasted it in the air. Dizzying, but not at all like being drunk. It made everything brighter, sharper—and at the same time, something in him loosened in relief. Finally; this was it. 

“So, uh. Anything I can do to help?”

With some difficulty, he tore his gaze from the vein. Sam was watching him intently. The light here was silvery-blue and it gave his face an unearthly cast, turned him almost elfin, with the long hair and the feline shape of his eyes. Then he smiled, that sunny eagerness again, and the illusion was gone. He was touchable again, flesh and blood.

Lucifer tucked the thought away for later and shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to take a walk while I do this.”

Sam blinked, but regained his smile quickly. “Trade secret?”

“Something like that.” Lucifer paused, let one side of his mouth quirk up. “That, and this is draining. If I mess this up, it’ll be at least a week before I’m in any state to try again. I need to concentrate, and you…” He looked Sam up and down. “…are a little distracting.”

There was the blush again. Sam didn’t meet his eyes right away, his expression unreadable—perhaps unused to being flirted with. Then he seemed to make a decision, and turned back, whatever had been troubling him apparently wiped away. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I bet you say that to everybody.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lucifer told him. “But I still need to you to go.” He offered a rueful smile.

Sam shrugged. “That’s alright. How long do you need?”

Lucifer glanced up at the sky. Still bright as midday. “An hour, maybe.”

“I’ll see you then.” Sam started away across the ice, then turned back, a hand raised in warning. “If you’re done before then, don’t go walking off. It’s actually pretty easy to get lost.” He glanced at one of the ice formations—which, now that Lucifer looked at it again, seemed closer than it had when they reached the vein. “Not everything’s as stable as it looks around here.”

“I’ll be careful,” Lucifer promised, and this time, Sam didn’t turn back. Lucifer watched his back until he vanished around the side of one of the ice formations, and then waited a moment longer to be sure he didn’t return to peek.

When he was certain Sam was gone, he pulled the vial out of his cloak. 

The small scroll with the incantation came next. Then the silver dagger Gabriel had gifted him years ago, before he turned his back on the family and ran. Lucifer laid them out on the ice, then took a deep breath of icy air, focused his mind, and reached inside himself. 

His own reserves of power had lain untapped since he left the mainland. He’d known he would need to be strong to complete the procedure. Wrestling with this kind of raw power was no matter for the weak or the untrained. Really, it was no wonder that none of the locals had succeeded in tapping the reserves beneath the ice, even if it was surprising that none had been stupid enough to try.

He glanced over the incantation a final time, though he’d read it often enough that the words were stamped into his memory. Then he crouched over the vein and, drawing on his own magic, began to chant.

The vein pulsed beneath the ice. Its light flickered and grew brighter with each word, shimmering with the pale colors of opal. As Lucifer spoke, it seemed to move, to writhe like a serpent, straining to break free. To come to him.

He pulled off his left glove and reached for the dagger. His voice held steady as he pressed the tip into his palm (thankful, for once, for the numbing cold.) Blood splashed onto the ice, but the sting of pain, when it came, was a distant thing, barely noticed.

Because the ice was melting where his blood had stained it—as though it were acid, burning right through the surface. The hole was neat and even, a well to tap the power beneath. And the vein was surging up toward him with the force of an ocean wave.

Lucifer reached for the vial. He held it out above the vein—

But it was too much—it burst toward him like a fountain of light, knocked the breath from his lungs in a shock of cold, and then he was on his back on the ice—

And then the ice was gone. He found himself in darkness, falling.

For a moment, fear gripped him, and he struggled to master it. Here, in the bodiless space of magic, there was little he could do. No eyes to close; no deep, calming breaths to take. He could only tumble through the black, and wait. 

Lady Amara had taught the princes that the fear was to be welcomed. It was the natural reaction to reaching that inner place to which magic sometimes takes all its users. _Not_ to feel it indicated a sickness deep within the spellcaster. Lucifer had never overcome the urge to struggle against it, though; to claw for control in the depths of his own mind. Perhaps that was a weakness, but it had yet to harm him—and anyway, he had more important worries right now.

The fall was long, this time, and the instinctual panic gave way to another kind of trepidation. Dreams, desires, memories: all were jumbled up together, where magic was concerned. What would his mind show him, this time around?

No sooner had the question occurred to him than he was jolted out of the dark. When he looked down, there was mud, not snow, beneath his boots, sucking at them like quicksand. In the distance was the clang of swords and the roar of flames. Flashes of magic. The screams of men and horses. 

There was still blood on his hands.

“Father,” he heard himself saying. “Father, I won’t leave you here.”

His heart sank as he realized where he was. 

His father’s hands pushed ineffectually at him. “There are civilians in danger. You can’t help me. Go and join your brother. Help _them_.”

It sounded so resigned, so much like a goodbye. Fear, as much as anything else, made him spit, “Those people are nothing to me! They’re strangers! I won’t leave you for them!”

His father sighed, his eyelids fluttering closed, disappointment in the line of his mouth. Lucifer felt his stomach drop, somehow conscious, with helpless anger, that something had just irrevocably changed.

“Father,” he started to say, but there was no reply, and when he tried to reach out, he found his hands were numb from the cold.

The cold. 

With a start, he came awake. Everything was bright and empty, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was. He blinked.

Gradually, it came back to him. The vast, pale sky above him. He was on his back in the ice field, his face and his ungloved hand tingling in the freezing temperature. The air around him was alive with power; it whispered across his skin like the charge before a lightning storm. He sat up, groaning. There was a hole in the ice where he’d spilled his own blood.

The rumors hadn’t led him false, then. The vein was indeed powerful—more so than he’d expected. He’d learned early to shield his mind from magical attacks, and shown more aptitude for it than any of his siblings, but this had been nothing like the directed aggression they’d trained with, and it had knocked him flat. He might as well have turned up his collar against a tidal wave.

He gritted his teeth and stood, forcing down the memory of childhood lessons where they’d fought like siblings and not like enemies. As he got to his feet, something fell with a tinkle to the ice.

The glass vial. Intact, and full of opalescent light. Somehow, in the midst of his vision, he’d managed to capture a little of it.

Lucifer stooped to pick it up, his breath catching in his throat. The glass vibrated minutely in his hand, the hum of power like something living. He held the vial up to the light, watching the pale shift of light and color within.

He’d done it. At last—after the years of fighting and planning, following a rumor up north might finally have shifted the balance. This time, he might take Michael down. Claim the throne. Go _home_.

“Hey!” Sam’s voice, carrying across the ice field, drew him out of his reverie, and he slipped the vial inside his cloak. He had been out longer than he thought, if an hour had already passed, but then time was never straightforward where magic was concerned.

Sam made his way across the ice as quickly as he could without slipping. He held his hands cupped before him, gloves off, and Lucifer caught sight of something—a glitter of bright blue-white between his fingers. Sam was frowning when he reached Lucifer’s side, his cheeks reddened by the cold.

“Everything okay?” he asked. “You were on the ground.”

Lucifer crouched to retrieve his other glove. “There are always risks with this kind of magic,” he pointed out. He looked up at Sam, and gave him a reassuring smile. “But I’m fine. We can head back, if you’re ready.” He paused and straightened, nodding at Sam’s cupped hands. “Or you can show me what you’ve got there.”

Sam blinked at him and looked down at his hands, as though he’d forgotten he was holding anything. He gave a bashful smile. “Oh. Uh, it’s kind of silly. Just—just an old wives’ tale, really.”

Lucifer regarded him curiously. “You didn’t think it was too silly to bring back with you,” he pointed out. “Show me?”

A moment’s hesitation, and then Sam opened his hands.

Inside sat a flower of ice. Or perhaps a star, for its edges were sharp as shards of glass. It shone from within, blue-white light the color of the stars in the dead of winter. It hadn’t even started to melt in Sam’s hands, holding its shape perfectly.

“Another side effect?” Lucifer asked, with a nod down at the vein beneath their feet.

“I guess so. Nobody knows where they come from.” Sam shrugged. “It’s actually kind of a tradition around here. They don’t melt, at least not for a long time. Sometimes people go find them for their sweethearts. They say they won’t melt until the love runs out.”

Lucifer laughed, touching one finger to the tip of a petal. “And do you believe that?”

Sam glanced away. “Just an old wives’ tale.”

“May I?” Sam nodded, and Lucifer plucked it from his palm. Their fingers brushed for a moment, and Lucifer felt—something.

A cold spark; a momentary connection. Something seemed to pass between them, prickling over the surface of his skin.

It wasn’t natural, that was for sure. But when he looked up to meet Sam’s eyes, Sam showed no sign of having felt it, his eyes still on the ice flower in Lucifer’s hand.

Probably an aftereffect of touching the vein. The buildup of its magic discharging itself into the first thing Lucifer touched. Perhaps Sam simply had no magical sensitivity, and hadn’t sensed it. It wasn’t common, in these parts.

Lucifer held the icy blossom up to the light. The thin shards of ice reflected Sam’s face back at him in slices, from a dozen different angles.

“We call them frozen stars,” Sam told him. “You, uh.” He kicked at the ice, looking at his feet. “You can keep it, if you want.”

Well, _that_ was interesting. 

And, if Lucifer was honest with himself, kind of charming. 

He had what he’d come for. There would be no ship off the island until the morning tide. He had time to use as he wished.

Besides, a little distraction might be welcome, might help keep him from dwelling on the unwelcome memories thrown up by his encounter with the vein. The unpleasant side-effects of dealing with wild magic could linger and cause problems later, a chain of explosions in the depths of the psyche. Of the reliable ways of avoiding them, a little company to warm one’s bed was by far the pleasantest—less tiresome than meditation; easier the morning after than drinking oneself to sleep.

Sam was still avoiding his eyes. Lucifer touched his shoulder, not moving when a braid of Sam’s hair slid down and brushed his hand. “Thank you,” he said, and smiled. 

He found that he meant it. It was good, to be able to offer sincerity in something.

For a brief moment, Sam leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. He pulled away, then, and turned toward the village. “We should get back.”

“We should,” Lucifer agreed, still smiling. Sam’s shyness might have been frustrating if he were anyone else, but there was none of the mannered coyness in it that city people cultivated. It was real.

A shame Lucifer couldn’t be real in return.

The thought surprised him, and he shut it down. He could afford to relax a little; not to give himself away.

He tucked the frozen star inside his cloak next to the vial, and turned to follow Sam’s footsteps across the ice. It burned there like a brand all the way back to the village.

 

\----

 

The market square was empty when they returned, darkness already shading into the sky. Behind the shutters of the buildings, fires were being lit. The smell of cooking fish—more pleasant than that of drying fish at least—drifted from houses in the side-streets. The wind had changed, at last. That would mean easier sailing tomorrow.

Sam dropped back once they reached the square, letting Lucifer lead him to the door of his rented lodgings. Lucifer paused before the doorway, his hand going half-consciously to the frozen star beneath his cloak. He pulled it out again, turning it in the dim light. Sam’s eyes caught in it, and this time, when he noticed Lucifer looking, he didn’t look away.

“You could probably make a fortune selling those in the cities,” Sam said, after a beat.

“Is that why you gave it to me?” Lucifer threw back.

“Maybe. Or maybe not,” Sam admitted, one corner of his mouth twitching up in the suggestion of a smile. 

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me?”

Sam’s throat worked as he swallowed. “That depends.” 

“On?”

“On what you’d say if I was.”

Lucifer gave a small smile and opened the door. “We’ve been out a long time,” he said. “Why don’t you come in and get warm?”

A few extra gold coins to the landlady had bought privacy, Lucifer’s own men stationed around the building and nobody else in sight. Alastair lounged against the wall in the hallway, his cold predator’s gaze passing over Sam before he straightened and bowed his head in Lucifer’s direction. Any greater show of deference would have drawn suspicion. Still, Alastair seemed to have adapted to it all too easily. There was something almost insectoid about him; by nature, Lucifer thought, he was more a criminal henchman than a royal guard.

Still, this was war. Sometimes one had to get one’s hands dirty, and men like Alastair had their uses.

“Successful expedition?” Alastair drawled.

Lucifer nodded. “We’ll ship out tomorrow morning. Be ready.” He paused, casting a significant look in Sam’s direction. “And make sure I’m not disturbed before then.”

Sam studiously pretended to ignore the exchange. Alastair smirked. “Yes, boss.”

Upstairs, a lamp burned low in the reception room. Lucifer motioned Sam to sit and retrieved one of the bottles of southern wine he’d brought with him from the cabinet, along with two of the rough ceramic cups in common use here. No crystal glasses, the local drink of choice being a clear spirit distilled from rubbery seaweed and only slightly more pleasant to the taste. Hardly worth the ceremony.

Lucifer had never much enjoyed playing host in Arcadia, where it was an expected duty, though he’d been as good an actor as any in the court. In some ways, war was easier. Niceties were expected of a prince; not of a general.

Still, the open curiosity with which Sam’s eyes followed him around the room made him think—yes. He could get used to this.

Their fingers brushed again as he handed one of the cups to Sam, who sat upright on the couch, his gloves in his lap. There was no spark of magic this time, but Sam’s eyes widened, his hand trembling minutely as he took the drink. Lucifer slid onto the couch beside him, inching into his space.

“Try some,” he said, nodding at the cup. 

Sam raised an eyebrow, his smile steadying itself. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Do I need to?” Lucifer paused. “Anyway, I thought people in these parts prided themselves on being able to drink oceans of that foul seaweed liquor without falling over.”

Sam made a face. “True. Though I’ve had to carry my brother home from the tavern a couple times too often to go for it myself.” He raised the cup of wine to his lips and took a sip, his throat working as he swallowed. “This is good, though.” He set the cup down, catching a stray red drop of wine with his thumb and absently sucking it from his skin.

A pleasantly distracting image, but something else had caught Lucifer’s attention. Sam had volunteered little information about himself so far, and Lucifer had been stuck with guesses. Here was a concrete tidbit of information. “Brother?” he said. “Older, I’m guessing?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?” There was a new edge in his voice, and his shoulders tensed, as though he was ready to spring to his feet. Apparently he wasn’t used to having other people figure _him_ out. 

Well; living this far north probably afforded him few opportunities to spar with intellectual equals.

Lucifer patted his knee, letting his hand linger just a second too long for friendly reassurance. “You carrying him home from the hostelries,” he said. “Sounds as though he made the mistakes so you didn’t have to.” People said that was the eldest sibling’s job, not that Lucifer had ever seen much evidence for the argument himself.

Sam glanced away, down at the cup of wine in his hands, and laughed. It sounded a touch forced, and when he looked up, his smile was pained. “I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he murmured, and it made Lucifer want to reassure him again; for real, this time. It was a sudden, startling feeling, a soft ache in his chest.

He hesitated a moment, unsure whether to push. He had no time for attachments, for becoming embroiled in the minutiae of other lives. This was supposed to be a pleasant way to spend an evening, nothing more.

Sam swallowed and reached for the wine again, molding his smile into something bright and stiff. “Not that you wanna hear about that,” he said, and took another drink.

Lucifer reached for Sam’s free hand, folded it between his own, and waited for Sam to meet his eyes again. “Your brother left to fight in the war,” he said. “Didn’t he? That’s why the thought of it makes you so angry.”

Sam blinked, but didn’t look away. The lamplight caught the flecks of gold in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, with a sigh. “He left two years ago. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Which side did he join?”

Sam’s frown deepened a little. “Michael’s.” For some reason Lucifer chose not to examine too deeply, that came as a relief.

“And you don’t approve?”

For a moment, Sam just looked at him. Considering; wary. “No,” he said, finally. A second’s pause. “But I wouldn’t feel any differently if he’d gone to fight for Lucifer.”

Lucifer lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t think he’d make a better king?”

Sam looked down. “You know, when the kingdom was first split, some people in the north were hopeful. Pleased that Lucifer was to rule up here. He had a reputation for believing in justice. They thought he’d be fairer.”

“Sounds like you weren’t one of them.”

Sam’s mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The whole idea of kingship is unfair. Cruel. How could anyone that came out of such a system be kind?” A note of frustration broke through, just briefly, but when Lucifer met his eyes, his expression was unreadable. Silence hung between them for a moment.

“You’re brave, Sam,” Lucifer found himself saying, after a moment. “Thoughts like those border on sedition. Not many would dare share them with a stranger.”

Sam looked at him from the corner of his eye. His eyes shone in the lamplight. “Yeah, well,” he said. “You seem… different, I guess.”

Lucifer took a sip of his own wine. “More than you know.”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, I guess there’s no chance of a simple Northerner understanding the ways of city folk.” He was smiling, his voice deliberately light, but there was a spark of something behind the dimples, steely and bright. 

Yes: there was definitely something special about this one. 

Lucifer set down his cup and leaned closer. Though they’d only recently come in from the cold, Sam radiated warmth. Turning toward it was instinctive, like a plant seeking sunlight.

The space of a breath passed, then another. Sam still seemed to hesitate, the color in his cheeks rosy in the lamplight. Lucifer watched his face, curious. Then, Sam’s expression grew firm. He seemed to make a decision—and it was he who closed the distance between them. 

A surprise, but certainly not an unwelcome one. It was gratifying, rather, that he’d finally gotten Sam to break through his reticence. Lucifer hadn’t intended to let him take the lead, but he found himself following, kissing back slowly, losing his train of thought in the tentative slide of Sam’s lips against his own. There was still no spark of magic where they touched, but it was mesmerizing in other ways—for a moment, at least. 

Sam broke the kiss, then, pulling away and looking down at his hands. His eyes reflected the lamplight, rendering their expression opaque. He swallowed hard.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

Lucifer blinked back at him, then gathered himself. He cupped Sam’s cheek, and gently turned Sam’s face back toward him. “Why?” he asked. He kept his voice gentle, too; undemanding. “Do you have a sweetheart? A betrothed?”

A beat passed before Sam met his eyes, with that same unreadable expression. “No, I don’t.”

“Nor I.” Lucifer paused, regarding Sam through narrowed eyes. “If you think I expect this in return for gold—you’re wrong. I employed you as a guide, and you’ve fulfilled your part of the bargain. If you want to leave now, you’ll still be paid.”

At that, the barest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Sam’s mouth. “No,” he said. “I mean, it’s good to know, but—I didn’t think that.”

Lucifer smiled back at him. “It’s good to know your opinion of city folk isn’t _all_ bad.” He brushed his thumb gently along Sam’s cheekbone, keeping his tone light, teasing. “Though I have to say, I was looking forward to helping improve it some more.” Sam didn’t pull away. That was encouraging, at least. “And since we’re both of age, and neither of us promised to others, I’m not sure why we shouldn’t.”

Sam was silent for a moment. Then he took a breath, and let that smile break over his face. “You know what?” he said. “You’re right. I was just—being stupid.”

Then they were kissing again, still slow, but surer, this time. Lucifer let his hand curl around the back of Sam’s neck, tangling in his hair, and Sam made a low sound in his chest, his arm coming up around Lucifer’s shoulders and pulling him closer. And Lucifer went with it, opened up to him. Not something he often did—not something he often had the opportunity for, in his own person—but with Sam it was easy, somehow, the slow build of heat between them warming him from within, Sam’s tongue pressing into his mouth, slow and exploratory, as though they had all the time in the world.

Besides which, he was curious. Sam presented a fascinating array of contradictions, by turns shy and forthright, mysterious and innocent. Lucifer wanted to know what he would do, given free rein.

So he let it happen, let his free hand creep up under the heavy layers of Sam’s clothing until he found warm skin. Sam shivered at his touch, and Lucifer let his fingertips trace the notches of Sam’s spine, explore the broad expanse of his back. The shift of taut muscle under his skin was thrilling—but nowhere near enough.

Luckily, Sam seemed to have had the same idea. He shrugged out of the heavy gray-brown fur he wore atop his other clothes, and fumbled for the fastener of Lucifer’s white one, while Lucifer set about divesting him of his tunic. The fire had warmed the room thoroughly enough that there was no discomfort in feeling the air on their bare skin; but still, he reached for Sam again as soon as he was able. The warmth of him was intoxicating, like holding the sun in his arms.

Northerners were usually pale—an unavoidable consequence of heavy clothing and six months a year where the sun barely peeked above the horizon before dipping back down—but the firelight turned Sam golden, picked out strands the colors of sunlight and chestnut in his braids.

He’d be beautiful, in the light of an Arcadian summer. Lucifer would have him wear gold in his hair.

The thought surprised him a little, and he shook it away. He’d rarely envisioned more than a night or two of pleasure with those who’d shared his bed—not with the noble ladies and gentlemen who had paraded in front of him at court before the war, nor with the comrades who’d kept him warm in hastily-pitched tents on the battlefield. He certainly didn’t have time to do so now, with somebody he’d leave tomorrow and never see again.

They would never truly know one another, and there was no use regretting the fact.

Sam was looking at him oddly, and Lucifer realized he’d gone still, caught up in his thoughts.

“Are you alright?” Sam asked, a touch of hesitancy in his voice. 

Lucifer pushed the too-melancholy thought away and smiled. “Never better,” he said, and leaned in to kiss the curve of Sam’s neck.

Apparently that was an effective distraction, because Sam’s hands found his hips and pulled him closer, into Sam’s lap, so that they were pressed chest-to-chest. He took in a sharp breath when Sam’s teeth found a nipple and latched on, teasing, his gasp muffled in Sam’s hair. Like this, he could feel the press of Sam’s cock through his trousers, already half-hard, and he gave an experimental roll of his hips. Sam made a muffled sound against his skin and surged up to kiss him again, deep and open-mouthed.

Now that he’d gotten over his initial shyness, he was different than Lucifer had expected. Lucifer had thought he’d need to be coaxed; taught. Instead, Sam kissed him like he was air, Sam’s hands roamed his bare skin as though he was trying to memorize every inch. He was open, giving. When Lucifer somehow found himself on his back atop the couch, Sam sliding down to kneel between his legs, Sam’s eyes were dark with lust.

The thought sent want thrumming through his veins, every nerve-ending alive with it. It had been too long since he’d allowed himself the simple thrill of being desired. Much longer, and he’d turn into as hopeless a prude as Michael.

Who was definitely not what Lucifer wanted to be thinking about in bed. He sat up before the thought could further distract him and pressed a quick kiss to Sam’s lips. He nodded toward the hallway.

“My chamber’s across the hall. Shall we move this somewhere a little more comfortable?” It was rare enough for Lucifer to run into a man who could stand eye-to-eye with him. That Sam stood a good two inches taller only added to his novelty. But the couch was clearly designed for people of ordinary height, and things were bound to get uncomfortable sooner or later.

Sam grinned and got to his feet. “That sounds like a good idea.” 

He’d lost the rest of his clothes sometime in the interim, and now he stood unselfconsciously naked before the fire. He was beautiful, hard planes of muscle in contrast to the soft, dimpled smile; cock standing proud and not a little impressive between his legs—but there was neither embarrassment nor vanity in him. He simply shrugged and made his way across the hall, throwing an amused glance over his shoulder when he noticed Lucifer had hung back on purpose to admire his rear view.

Which, it occurred to him, wasn’t the wisest of ideas. His maps still lay unrolled on the table in his bedchamber, and a cursory glance at the notes would tell an observer they weren’t those of a merchant. 

But then, Sam was just a villager. The likelihood was he’d never learned to read. A real waste, even if it suited Lucifer’s purpose right now.

“This was your idea,” Sam pointed out. “You’d better join me.”

Lucifer smirked and followed him. For a second, he considered snagging the bottle of wine on his way out, but quickly decided against it. There were more immediate pleasures to be had.

He caught Sam by the hand on his way into the chamber, overtaking him and drawing him toward the bed. One of his attendants had already lit candles, and they flickered as the door closed, casting soft shadows across Sam’s face, highlighting the dimples at the corners of his smile. Sam followed where Lucifer led him without hesitation, this time. He sank to his knees just as Lucifer felt his legs touch the end of the bed, working open the fastener of Lucifer’s trousers to free his cock.

Sam made a low, appreciative noise and nuzzled at the sensitive skin of his thigh, his hair tickling a little. Lucifer couldn’t quite stifle a laugh, and when Sam looked up at him, there was humor dancing in those feline eyes. 

A beautiful sight. Sam pushed at him gently, though, urging, “Lie back,” and for once in his life, Lucifer did as he was told. 

He felt Sam’s breath on his skin, Sam’s hand tightening on his hips, and then Sam swallowed him down in a single movement.

He hadn’t been quite ready for it, and the wet heat of Sam’s mouth made stars dance behind his eyelids.

Sam chuckled, a soft vibration, and then commenced sucking Lucifer’s cock like his life depended on it.

Perhaps Sam didn’t know the tricks of city courtesans, but what he lacked in technique, he more than made up for with enthusiasm, his eyes slipping closed, his right hand sneaking down to stroke at his own erection. There was nothing so beautiful as a partner who gave pleasure without ulterior motive, taking pleasure in return for its own sake. Lucifer had had precious few of those in his time, an unavoidable hazard of royalty.

The thought was fleeting, though, chased away by the slick heat and the sparks of sensation that made their way down his spine. He allowed his eyes to fall closed again, one hand twisting in the furs atop his bed, the other finding purchase in Sam’s hair. Sam took in a sharp breath through his nose, and Lucifer released his hold, realizing that perhaps he’d been rougher than he intended. 

He propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at Sam, catching his breath. “Did I hurt you?”

Sam pulled off him with a wet sound and shook his head. There was color high on his cheeks again, and he blinked a couple of times before he met Lucifer’s eyes. “No,” he admitted, and hesitated for a second. “It, uh. It feels kind of good, actually.”

Lucifer smiled and tangled his fingers in Sam’s hair again, tugging lightly. “Far be it from me to deny you,” he murmured.

Sam gave a soft gasp, his eyes fluttering briefly closed, but didn’t go back to his task right away. Instead, he slipped the tip of a forefinger into his mouth, sucking at it gently and meeting Lucifer’s eyes in question.

Lucifer hesitated a moment. He knew the feeling to be pleasurable, and saw little sense in the importance some men attached to the sanctity of their asses, his own pride being of a higher order. But such sentiments were widespread, and lovers gossiped, so he rarely indulged.

Still. He wasn’t the King in the North today, just a simple merchant taking a tumble with a simple villager. So he breathed out a “Yes,” and the way Sam’s eyes darkened was almost reward enough.

Closing his eyes again, he sank back onto the bed. The tip of Sam’s finger breached him at the same moment Sam’s mouth closed over his cock again, and he gasped at the flood of sensation, the slow burn of Sam pressing further into him, the low build of desire in his belly turning urgent. He couldn’t help but move, thrusting up into Sam’s mouth, rocking back onto the slick finger inside of him. Sam gave a low moan, the vibration almost too much, and his free hand gripped Lucifer’s hip bruisingly hard.

It was all over too soon. Lucifer hovered there for a moment, caught on the edge of it, and then Sam did _something_ —a twist of his wrist that caught the sweet spot inside of him—and he came with a stutter of his hips, spilling his release down Sam’s throat.

Sam swallowed around him. When he pulled back, he was smiling, looking like the cat that got the cream.

Not that Lucifer had long to enjoy the sight. Sam was climbing onto the bed, then, crawling up to kiss him, the salt taste of Lucifer’s own come still on his tongue. Lucifer could feel the press of Sam’s cock against his thigh, still hard as iron, precome pearling at its tip. The mattress shifted beneath him as he reached down to take himself in hand.

By now, Lucifer had gathered himself enough to determine that that wasn’t going to happen, and he caught Sam by the wrist.

“Let me,” he breathed, rolling onto his side for easier access, and Sam nodded and let his eyes close. 

Lucifer leaned in and curled a hand around his cock, stroking him firm and slow. It had definitely been too long since he’d touched anybody like this, he decided. The silkiness of Sam’s skin over his straining erection, the hot beat of his pulse in Lucifer’s hand—all of it felt like a revelation.

He kissed the side of Sam’s neck—and after a moment, remembering Sam’s reaction to the hair-pulling, gave an experimental press of his teeth. Sam’s breath caught in his chest, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp of surprise, his cock twitching under Lucifer’s touch. Lucifer hummed, gratified, and did it again, sucking a bruise into the skin above Sam’s collarbone.

They wouldn’t see each other again after tonight; but he could ensure Sam remembered him for a few days, at least.

He quickened his pace, and Sam’s arms came up around his shoulders, clutching him like a lifeline. Sam was still clinging to him like that when he came, his seed spilling over Lucifer’s hand and his own belly in a warm rush.

Sam let go, then, and flopped onto his back, still breathing hard. Lucifer smiled down at him; raised an eyebrow.

“Glad you stayed?” he asked.

Sam grinned up at him. “You know what?” he said. “I think I am.” He paused, swallowing. “Kind of thirsty, though.”

Lucifer stretched lazily and rolled onto his back. “The wine’s in the next room.”

“I thought city folk were supposed to be good hosts,” Sam grumbled, but he wiped himself off and got to his feet.

While he fetched the wine, Lucifer let himself stretch out on the bed, relishing this rare moment of quiet. He felt loose-limbed and easy—and warm, for perhaps the first time since he’d set foot on this godsforsaken island. Maybe, he reflected, as Sam returned from the other room bearing two cups of wine, the trip would have been worth it just for this.

“I, uh, thought you’d probably want one too,” Sam said, handing him one of the cups. “So hey, don’t go saying northern folk have no manners.”

“I would never,” Lucifer promised him, and leaned up for another lingering kiss before taking a sip of his wine. He wasn’t sure which was sweeter.

Sam sank back onto the bed beside him, letting his head come to rest on Lucifer’s shoulder. He made a soft, contented sound as his eyes closed.

Sam, Lucifer decided. It was definitely Sam.

 

\----

 

He awoke both with a start and not quickly enough. His heart pounded in his chest, yet at the same time shreds of dream clung to his mind’s eye, leaving him foggy and disoriented. Images lingered. A castle—one of his father’s old strongholds near the north-south border—in flames. A sound like a battlefield, clashing steel and bright bursts of magic and a tang of blood in the air, chaos reigning all around him. Sam’s face, for some reason, his hair unbraided and lines of worry around his eyes that hadn’t been there last night. He looked back at Lucifer with terror in his eyes.

Through the fog of nightmare, Lucifer realized he’d clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a shout. An old habit, born of shared nurseries and too many childhood nights spent protesting to Michael that he needed no coddling.

The next thing he registered was a pounding headache. Then the fact that his bed was cold.

He sat up, frowning. Last night he’d drunk little more than a cup of wine: certainly not enough to sleep through Sam leaving, or to wake with this throbbing pain behind his eyes. He squinted around the room. The candles had guttered out during the night, leaving him only the grayish strip of morning light that peeked through beneath the shutters by which to see.

Abruptly, the sleepy fog in his head vanished. They were supposed to have sailed with the morning tide. His men should have woken him before dawn. 

Lucifer climbed out of bed and wrapped a blanket around his waist for modesty’s sake before he flung open the shutters, a slow dread curling its way up from his gut. 

The icy blast of air that hit his bare skin stole the breath from his lungs and he slammed the shutter closed again, blinking against the sharp cold. Still, his brief glimpse outside had told him all he needed to know. The market square was busy, well into the day’s business, and the pale sun was up. It rose late, in these parts. Something had gone very, very wrong.

Lucifer turned away from the window. Their cups of wine from last night stood on the table, his own still more than half-full. Sam’s was untouched. Narrowing his eyes, Lucifer lifted the one he’d drunk from and sniffed the contents.

Something wasn’t quite right. Southern wines were always sweet, but this was cloying, a little too floral. Like the sleeping draught he’d once watched a medicine woman prepare in the rainforests of the far south. 

Sam had drugged him. That was the only explanation.

He set down the cup—then realized it had been holding something else down on the table. A note, written in Lucifer’s own ink. The hand was sloping, a little crude—but given that he’d hardly expected Sam to be literate at all, that wasn’t a surprise. It was short: a simple phrase in the local dialect. _I will not rule, and ruled I will not be_. Beneath it, the initials _S. W._

Lucifer had heard the phrase before. A favourite slogan of the Resistance. And those initials…

Dean Winchester was a northerner. He’d fought briefly in Michael’s army before turning against him.

The realization fell into place like a puzzle piece. The brother the prisoner had talked of so fondly wasn’t a child at all. Sam Winchester.

Lucifer lit a candle and held the note up, frowning. It was only then that he realized there was writing on the other side.

 _I have a friend who works on the boats_ , it read, in the same rough hand. _He suspects the new harbormaster’s assistant is a spy. One of Michael’s._

_There’s a hunting party sailing in two days. They won’t dock at the mainland port. There’s an outpost a little to the east—easier to get to the forests from there. Joanna Beth will take passengers for a price._

That was all. 

Very deliberately, Lucifer laid the note flat on the table and made his way across the hall.

For a moment, the light of the candle he held caught the gray-brown of Sam’s fur, still strewn across the couch beside the dying fire, and something that was not quite hope leapt in his chest. It dimmed just as quickly when he realized his own white one was gone.

The precious vial of magic it held—that was gone, too.

His anger should have been a hot, violent thing. Instead, it opened up a blank white space inside of him, cold as the ice fields he’d tramped across yesterday.

Something glimmered atop Sam’s fur on the back of the couch. The frozen star Sam had given to him yesterday, still intact, its edges sharp as a cut gem.

Lucifer regarded it coolly for a moment. Then he picked it up and flung it against the far wall.

There was no satisfying crash. It simply bounced back and landed at his feet, intact.

 

\----

 

The door to Lucifer’s chambers wouldn’t open right away. He had to put his shoulder into it, and when he stepped outside, he saw the weight that had been holding it closed.

Alastair lay slumped against the door, blood soaking the front of his tunic. Garrotted. 

Dispassionately—still full of that white numbness—Lucifer crouched over the body, touching the bloodstain with his fingertips. It was sticky, but drying. There was no doubt that Sam was long gone.

For now. 

Lucifer decided he had been wrong last night, when he’d assumed they’d never see one another again. Sam had played dumb prettily enough, pretending to be taken in by Nick-the-merchant. And Lucifer had had no idea he was the brother of so infamous a nuisance. But one way or another, he’d look Sam Winchester in the eye again, in his own person.

Then he’d put a sword in Sam’s guts. A shame, to destroy a thing of such beauty—but Sam had really left him no choice.

Perhaps first, though, he’d ask, _Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?_

Lucifer let himself back in through the door, turning toward the bedchamber to dress, but a glint of blue-white light caught in the corner of his eye.

The frozen star still lay on the floor of the other room. Lucifer hesitated only a moment. Then he retrieved it, and tucked it into the pocket of Sam’s cloak.

 

\----

 

_Several weeks later_

The witch’s cottage, set into the side of a hill in one of the steep pine forests that swept down from the far north, was deceptively modest from the outside. Waiting in the snow for his knock to be answered, Lucifer could almost have imagined a simple woodcutter would open the door.

He knew better, of course. Rowena MacLeod and her son dealt in nothing so solid as wood, making their fortune from predicting the ill-luck of others and offering them deals that couldn’t be refused. It was a tawdry business, and under other circumstances Lucifer would happily have seen both their heads on pikes, but needs must.

The door opened. Rowena gasped when she laid eyes on him, one hand flying to her mouth. The rich brocade of her cloak rustled as she dropped to bended knee, red curls tumbling forward into her face.

“My liege,” she breathed. “What assistance can your humble servant offer?”

Lucifer sighed. “You can lose the formalities, Rowena. I know where your loyalties lie.” Sure enough, her eyes fastened greedily on the pouch of gold he held out. “I trust I’m today’s highest bidder, at least?”

Rowena straightened and took the pouch, weighing the gold in her hand without bothering to check the contents. Lucifer wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn that her powers of divination extended to valuing money without a glance. 

“This will do nicely.” She stepped back, the pouch disappearing somewhere into the folds of her cloak. “Come in.”

The interior of the cottage was as lavish as the outside was unassuming. The room to which Rowena led him was lit only by the silvery glow of the crystal ball that sat in the middle of the table, the silks that draped the room shimmering in its pale light. Rowena seated herself before it, and Lucifer took the chair opposite her without waiting to be asked.

“So,” she said, folding her hands. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a divination.” He frowned. “I’m having dreams.” They’d recurred at least once every few nights since he left the island—the same images of chaos, of a castle in flames, of Sam’s horrified face.

“Prophetic ones?” Rowena lifted a manicured eyebrow. “Surely you know how to read them?”

The interpretation of dreams was a basic skill, something in which all the old king’s children had been trained. Lucifer had been the quickest pupil, with Gabriel only a little way behind. Michael and Raphael, their aunt had explained, lacked the requisite imagination. But dreams of blood and fire in wartime told him little he didn’t already know.

Lucifer nodded. “There’s something else,” he said. “I met somebody. A few weeks ago. I sensed _something_ from him at the time, but I’d been working powerful magic, and you know the aftereffects are unpredictable.”

“So you disregarded it.” Rowena’s eyes glittered with curiosity. “And now?”

“I’m starting to think he’s more important than I realized.”

Rowena nodded. “Give me your hand.”

She spent a moment staring down at the lines on his palm, her lips moving around words she didn’t speak aloud, but then something else seemed to catch her attention, and she looked up.

“This person—he gave that to you,” she said, and nodded at the front of Lucifer’s cloak.

He’d worn the frozen star Sam gave him pinned there since his return to the mainland. A caution, he’d thought, against letting down his guard.

“He did,” he allowed.

Rowena held out her hand. “May I?” He hesitated a moment, and she seemed to see it. “Whatever connection he has with you,” she said, “it’s left a powerful trace in that—whatever-it-is. It’ll help me see more clearly.”

Lucifer sighed and unpinned it. “A frozen star,” he told her, handing it over. “Just an island superstition.”

She clasped it in both hands, the pale blue-white light creeping out between her fingers, and closed her eyes. After a moment, a jolt shook her and her eyes snapped open, rolled so far back in her head that only their whites were visible. The seer’s trance.

In reality it lasted only a moment, but it felt like a lifetime before Rowena sagged forward and broke out of her trance. The frozen star tumbled from her grasp and landed in front of Lucifer on the table. 

He retrieved it and pinned it to the front of his cloak. “Well?”

Rowena looked up, brushing hair out of her face. “He’s certainly handsome,” she said, an appreciative note in her voice that made Lucifer grit his teeth. He fixed her with a sharp look.

“The relevant parts?”

She huffed, but continued. “Your paths are entangled. Not always closely, but there’s no avoiding it. You’re right: he will be important.”

“And the dreams?”

Rowena frowned. “That’s where things get foggy. There’s a point where the paths come together, and after that—” She gave a vague wave of her hands. “There’s no telling. Whatever happens, it’ll be a turning-point. What you sensed, that’s an echo from the future. One day you’ll hold his life in your hands. Or he yours. Who knows?”

“That already happened,” Lucifer told her, frowning. “He had the chance to kill me while I slept. He made the mistake of sparing me.”

But Rowena shook her head. “This is the future I’m talking about. Whatever happens isn’t set in stone. It hasn’t been decided yet.”

“Perhaps not by him.” Lucifer let his expression turn grim, his hand going reflexively to the sword at his belt. “I know exactly what’s going to happen.”

Rowena inclined her head. “Of course, my lord,” she said, and began to count her gold.

 

\----

 

Lucifer made the ride back to camp deep in thought. Rowena’s words wore on him, despite what he’d said. 

The undecided future. The thought of his life in Sam’s hands once again—or the reverse. The outcome ought to be clear. And yet…

Had Sam killed him on the island, he would’ve been hailed as a rebel hero. The Resistance bore no love for either king; Sam had said as much. All royalty was suspect. But Sam had left him breathing, even warned him of the danger that waited on the mainland. 

The puzzle occupied him as he wound his way through the snowy forest, and by the time the lights of the camp came into view, he found that the cold anger that had gripped him since his return from the island had faded to background noise. At the forefront of his mind sat something else. Curiosity.

There was a messenger waiting beside his tent. Meg, one of his youngest lieutenants, but admirably ruthless in the field. She held a scroll bearing Uriel’s broken seal.

Lucifer eyed the parchment. “Tell me you have good news.”

“Yes.” Meg frowned. “I think. You’ll want to read this yourself.”

He took the scroll and ducked into the tent, then seated himself at the map table in the center. Confusion—then realization—dawned as he read.

_My King,_

_Our last communication gave me to understand you had postponed your plans for an attack on Michael’s stronghold near the border. However, the castle came under siege yesterday, from magical forces stronger than any known to the rebels. It seems they have somehow got their hands on a powerful magical weapon._

_Some of the most dangerous Resistance prisoners were freed, your half-brother and his companions among them. Michael’s defenses are weakened, his forces scattered in pursuit. If you were to make your move, now would be an opportune time._

So Sam had freed Castiel, and no doubt his own brother at the same time. And perhaps—perhaps—he had unwittingly done Lucifer a favor in the process.

“Meg!” he called. 

She ducked in through the tent flap. “My lord?”

“Gather the Seven. I have a mission for you.”

Her expression perked up. “The rebel you wanted me to hunt down?”

Lucifer hesitated, just a moment, fingers brushing the frozen star on his cloak. “No,” he said, finally. “It can wait. For now, we concentrate on Michael.”

None in Lucifer’s camp would dare question his decision. Meg raised an eyebrow, but disappeared to fetch her comrades without comment.

 

\----

 

So if the boy hero of the Resistance wore a cloak of white fur far finer than that favored by his people, his comrades simply assumed it was a gift—most likely from some noble lady whose head had been turned by broad shoulders and a dimpled smile, and whispered tales of daring.

And if the King in the North wore a strange icy jewel pinned to the front of his cloak, that, too, was held to be an admirer’s trinket. Some Northern maiden, no doubt, smitten by blue eyes and Arcadian manners.

Lucifer knew better, of course. The frozen star was a reminder.

Perhaps, by the next time he met Sam Winchester, he would even know what it was a reminder of.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're thinking, "Well, that ended on a very 'TBC' kind of note, didn't it?" ...you'd be right! There will probably be a couple more stories in this verse -- though, since RL is about to deliver me an arse-kicking bigger than Luci's ego, I can't promise when. Subscribe for updates, I guess?
> 
> Talk to me? [Tumblr](http://anactorya.tumblr.com) | [LJ](http://anactoria.livejournal.com)


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